Rant to Redhead
by Forseti Purge
Summary: Van Pelt walks to a bar...and meets a blonde. She seems crazy. Can Van Pelt deal with her? Sequel to Dust and Lust. Reviews are eternally loved.


Disclaimer: Neither Homeland nor the Mentalist is mine. The story, all of it, is.

The story is set the next night after Dust and Lust, and in the same universe of Fiery Finding and Talked Tropes. Not necessary to read them. Enjoy.

SACRAMENTO

Grace van Pelt entered Zemlya, a Russian nightclub in K Street, Downtown. Went straight to the bar. She didn't particularly like to drink, much less mingle in polluted legion or watch cookie-cutter cuties shimmy around poles. But today she'd had a hard case, and a drink now and then never hurt. Besides, if some jerk made a move on her, she still had her gun and badge, tucked comfortingly beneath her coat. Oughtta scare 'em.

"Black Russian," she said to bartender. "Make the vodka Stoli."

Van Pelt mused. Usually, the hardest she drank was Dom Perignon, no more than three flutes. Since when did she like strong stuff like this? And why? But she couldn't pretend she didn't know the answers. She'd changed. She'd changed the moment three—or four—bullets struck the heart of her fiance. Her bullets.

O'Laughlin. Red John's mole.

The man shot Lisbon and held her and Hightower at gunpoint. Betrayal and betrayal and betrayal. Why? How? No matter. The bastard's dead; the job's done. She'd killed him twenty-nine seconds after the revelation. About right away. She supposed that's why she'd quickly passed that how-could-I've-been-so-stupid-why-I-haven't-seen-it-before period. She literally ended the trouble before he could hurt too long. Before she could even grieve. Or kill herself.

Well. What doesn't kill you only makes you strong. That cliché was true for her. After his death she emerged far stronger than she'd ever been. Too strong, her colleagues sometimes said. Rightly. But—

"So be it."

"Indeed."

Van Pelt turned. A blonde.

"You talking to me?"

"You bothered?"

"Now I am."

"Oh." The blonde returned to her shot and drank it like a redneck biker. So classless. So sad. She could have been an actress—she looked like Claire Danes, in fact—but she didn't have the grace. Grace. Hah. Hahahaha—

"You laughing at me?"

"How does it feel?"

"It's nothing. I've been worse."

The blonde smiled, and Van Pelt knew. The blonde wouldn't lay a finger on her, raise a voice to her. She wanted it to be a battle of sarcastic remarks, where one made the others feel worse by casual retorts. Juvenile.

"Okay," Van Pelt said, nodding and smiling. "Okay. What's your problem anyway." She sipped her cocktail. "Office affair? Stupid boss? Farting kids?"

"Ever have a problem, Miss...?"

"Grace."

"Hi, Grace. I'm Carrie. You ever have a problem, Grace? A big problem. Something that struck you at soul."

"Matter of fact I did."

"Care to tell?"

"I killed my fiancee."

"Wish I could do the same."

Van Pelt chagrined. This blonde had said her words sincerely. "You're kidding."

"I'm not."

"Believe it or not, I'm a cop. I can get you downtown for some questions."

"I know. You've a gun beneath your coat. On your waist."

Van Pelt was surprised. Carrie didn't strike her as someone in the field. The shock must've slipped to her face because then Carrie said, "It's okay. I may not look like it but I've been in a war zone. Well, maybe not entirely a war zone, since it's kinda over already back then—but I know someone with guns when I see one."

"You in the military?"

"No."

"CIA?"

"No."

"Journalist?"

"No."

"What did you do in...?"  
>"Iraq."<p>

"Carrie. What did you do in Iraq?"

"Got lost."

The answer was so absurd Van Pelt was insulted. But then she remembered. "We're digressing," she said. "Still want to shoot your fiancee?"

"Fine, I'm kidding."

Van Pelt wasn't so sure. Let's see if she could dig it a bit. "What's your fiancee done for you? If you like to tell."

"He's not my fiancee..."

"Boyfriend?"

"A...lover. For two days."

"Two days?"

"Best time in my life, don't mind if I died in those days." Carrie sighed. "Too bad I didn't. Now I've to deal with s—"

"Hey."

"Sacramentans and their PG-13 conversation. Why, we're all adults."

"Just don't. Please."

"All right, fine. Mess. The mess that came out afterward."

Van Pelt saw. "It's an affair, right? Don't wanna hear you anymore." She returned to her cocktail.

"That's not fair." Carrie raised her voice for the first time. "I listened to your problem."

"Honest to God, I've never seen my problem coming. He pointed a gun at me and my bosses and so I killed him in self-defense. But you. You should have realized it's a mistake, and you ought to be embarrassed now for telling a stranger about it."

Van Pelt expected Carrie to burst. Or better, leave.

Instead: "Please. Hear me out."

Van Pelt glanced. Carrie was holding her tears. Van Pelt wanted to ignore it but couldn't. For a moment she was back in a lift, sobbing and crying, trying to hold but failing. Lisbon was beside her, useless as her tears. Well, not useless. She'd taken flak for turning blind on her and Rigsby, and nothing she could've said could solace her.

But this woman, this blonde. Carrie. She's begging. And so out of pity and remembrance of that lift and knowledge that sparing a minute for this blonde would not kill her, Van Pelt turned.

"Yes."

"Thank you. Look. It's an affair all right. He has wife and kids. I was hurt when it's over, but I know it should have been."

"So what's the problem?"

"One night, he came over, asked me not to tell a soul about it."

"Did you?"

"I did as he said. It hurt, but I did suck it up for a while."

Van Pelt saw Carrie tighten her clinch on her glass. Too tight. It might break.

"And then?"

"Then...then, when I was at work, I got to a question about past events. I recalled that he's an expert on it, and so I asked him to come over. Pure work only."

"He didn't come?"

Crack. "He told my boss we had an affair."

"What? Why?"

Crack. "I didn't get it either. I got suspended. Then I put it together that he's some sort of a...criminal."

"You're a cop?"

"Yes."

Van Pelt wasn't convinced, but she nodded. "Go on."

"Something in the past can incriminate him, which was why he ratted me out. I was too close, got to be stopped." Crack. "I came to his house, told her daughter to call him."

"Did she?"

"No." Carrie shook her head, slowly at first, then faster and faster. "No no no no no no no..."

She would keep shaking until she fainted. Van Pelt tugged her shoulder. She stopped.

"Sorry."

"Finish your story."

"Okay. That little cu—bitch called the cops. Said I was crazy." Crack-crack-crack...stop. "She's right. Her father didn't do anything." She smiled, a smile that fit better on a corpse. Then chuckled and laughed and forced it until she sounded as smooth as nail scratched on blackboard. Then stopped, out of breath, and hogged her drink in one swallow. Too much. She coughed and choked. Pathetic.

Grace kept her mouth shut. She was out of compassion. This crazy blonde. Possibly the most miserable human being alive. Van Pelt pitied Carrie, of course, but she wouldn't shed a tear for her.

But Carrie seemed to read her mind. She nodded to her. "Grace. I know what you think. You're thinking I'm crazy—"

"Indeed—"

"And you're right. I'm crazy. I've problems, sh—so much of load of problems. But thank you for listening to me. I really appreciate that."

"Sure."

Carrie smiled. This one better. More human.

"I've to go," Carrie said. "Nice talking to you." She stood and left the cash.

Grace nodded. Then remembered.

"Just a second."

"What?"

"Who told you we Sacramentans must keep our conversation in PG-13?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"He a blond man?"

"Why, yes, but—"

"His name. Is it Jane?"

"No."

"Oh, I thought...never mind."

There had been a minor buzz in the office. After he opened some strange website, Jane talked to...who? What? He said something about "the Mentalist" and "readers". And since then he insisted that everyone kept their language in PG-13. If not, he said, a big disaster would happen. We might be dead. Our lives would end. For a reason God knew what, Grace took his words seriously.

"Goodbye, Grace."

"Goodbye, Carrie."

Grace watched Carrie disappear into the crowd. Gone.

Carrie. Carrie...

The first name! Why didn't she ask if it's Patrick?


End file.
